


Fate's Crossing

by InMyArmsAgain



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bottom Loki, Character Death, Clint Has Issues, Disasters, Emotional, Forbidden Love, Helpful Bruce, Helpful Steve, Historical Dress, Historical References, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, Loki-centric, M/M, Minor Sif/Thor (Marvel), Odin's A+ Parenting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Loki, RMS Titanic, Rich Thor, Romance, Sorry Not Sorry, Thorki - Freeform, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Top Thor, Tragedy, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMyArmsAgain/pseuds/InMyArmsAgain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year was 1912. </p><p>Loki Laufeyson was a penniless begger off the streets with no family and no means to live. And after so long, he had lost hope for a better life, and his last, desperate option was to escape. Then there was Thor Odinson, who never wanted for anything. A lifelong aristocrat, he had riches, respect, and was about to marry the wealthy beauty Sif. But for all he had, he still longed for what he didn't. He wanted something to live for, something that gave him some sense of purpose.</p><p>It was mere coincidence that brought them both onto the RMS Titanic. It was chance alone that brought them together. And with unseen disaster looming, with the aid of some unlikely allies, they go beyond all they had ever known to reach what they thought impossible: real love.</p><p>(Loosely inspired by the film Titanic, with other elements thrown in)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Long story short: I'm a massive fan of everything Titanic, I'm a sucker for everything Thorki, I watched the Avengers and Titanic in the same weekend, and this happened. I swear, this is the story I swore I would never write, and I cannot believe that I'm actually posting this. But there are some stories that you just can't resist, and I'm hoping that there are folks out there who are willing to take this crazy ride with me.
> 
> Unlike my other stories, this one is being written as a go along, with not much pre-planning. So please bear with me. Also, just to give a head's up, I promise that I will explain the last name situation for Thor later on (he is still Odinson while his parents are Borson). It's so difficult to stay somewhat canon when you're dealing with Norse gods planted into early twentieth century society.
> 
> Speaking of last names, Sif's name came from the Norse figure Ullr, who according to the mythology was Sif's son.
> 
> Anyhow, enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters all belong to Marvel Comics. I claim no ownership at all.

The window of the tiny flat was propped open by a sturdy plank, letting a cooling breeze into the bedroom. Actually, it was a little cooler than Loki would have preferred. But this inn sat over a rowdy old pub, and the smell of cigarette ash and smoke did nothing but barely mask the odor of moldy wood. The old saying goes; beggars really could not be choosers. And Loki would much rather deal with the chill than be slowly suffocated. So he just wrapped his jacket around himself a little tighter.

In the corner of the room, his sack lay packed and ready to go the next morning. When he made the deal with that spinster landlady that he could stay in one of her rooms in exchange for a night’s work, she made it very clear that Loki had to be out by midday. But the way she said it just told Loki that she wanted the room vacated much earlier than that. Basically, he had to be prepared to be forced out at first light. It wasn’t as though he had much with him anyway. A few pairs of trousers, a couple of shirts, his jacket, his braces, his shoes, what little money he had, and his journals. It was pathetic, really, but it was all that he could carry, and therefore all he needed.

As he lay awake on that borrowed bed, Loki had to wonder how much longer he would live like this. For fifteen years, he had been on his own, and this state of on-and-off the streets had been his daily life for almost nine. Nine years of working his way, earning just enough to keep himself alive, never staying in one place too long, and trudging across the English counties right up to his arrival there in Southampton. No matter how many times Loki prayed for some relief, none came. And no one else cared to offer any, except those few who took enough pity to give him work, food, or a night’s shelter. After all those years, Loki was almost forced to accept his state of poor fortune: drifting across Britain, going from job to job with no anchor, no home, waiting to die in the gutter he had been born into.

But he just couldn’t do it anymore. He was tired of begging for work, taking on tedious labor for wages that were hardly worth the effort. At barely twenty-six years old, he was too young to sentence himself to such a pitiful fate. There had to be something better somewhere. His poor mother would have wanted him to have better; that thought alone was enough to keep Loki from popping himself off in a fit of despair.  But what could he do when he had exhausted almost every option Britain had to offer? And it was that last scrap of desperation that led to Loki saving his funds for weeks until he had enough to purchase the ticket that was stuck between the pages of his newest journal, which was blank all the way through.

Would the tales be true? Would America solve all the problems dealt on him? Truthfully, Loki was doubtful, very doubtful. Emigrating held no more promise than transferring from one workhouse to the next. But as he already concluded, he had no other choice. If he was to be a penniless vagabond for life, it would not be for lack of trying.

Loki turned his attention back to his open window. He could hear two drunkards outside, having it out over a rigged game of poker, and Loki sighed. As far up shit’s creak as he was, he would not miss Britain, not least of all Southampton. This island of dust, dirt, and coal held no happy memories for him. Before him was the abyss of unknowing, and the stamp of that was in the distance, silhouetted across the night sky.

The ship that would carry him away.

The row below came to blows with the sound of glass liquor bottles cracking across skulls. As he rolled over to crunch up his angled body in an attempt to sleep, Loki could at least take some comfort in his own situation. He might have had less than a pound in his pocket, but at least he wasn’t pissing it away in a pub.

 

* * *

 

“I do hope that your mother kept those extra wedding invitations,” the Lady Sif said as she played with the fingertips of her gloves, extending her arms past the brim of her face-shadowing hat. “Just think of the people we will be meeting today who could come. Just yesterday, I overheard that the Countess of Rothes will be among the first class passengers. We will practically be traveling with royalty, darling.”

“Even royalty must resort to such means of travel,” replied the strapping man beside her. Unlike his fiancé, who in her boredom resorted to chatter and vanity fussing, Thor just looked out the window at the passing streets and towns. He was dressed in a pressed three-piece suit, though the way he sat rigidly in the back of that car did not say too much about its comfort. And the blonde hair under his hat was neatly tied back; Sif was always insisting he get it cut, but Thor liked to set himself aside from the rest of the society boys in the city. Thor scratched gently at his stubbled chin, letting his eyes linger on the mothers and children flying by.

“Oh Thor, you really don’t know how silly you sound sometimes.”

“I don’t know what’s so silly about it,” said Thor. “Frankly, I don’t see reason to fuss. We were in fine company when we were on the _Lusitania_ last month.”

“That was the _Lusitania_ , Thor,” Sif replied. “This is _Titanic_. The papers say it’s meant to be the most luxurious ship of all time. It was made for our people. Why, if all goes well, we may have a new option for our honeymoon.”

Thor sighed to himself; it seemed that every five minutes, Sif had new plans related to their upcoming wedding, which would be taking place thirty days after their return to America. And each idea was grander than the last. If it were up to Thor, a man of great affluence but little patience, it would only be the minister to witness this anticipated marriage. But he and Sif were blue bloods from birth. Sif always imagined her wedding with the same opulence. And all Thor really wanted to do was to make her happy. So he stepped aside, always.

The car jumbled them about as they continued through Southampton, and it wasn’t long before Sif grew impatient. “Fandrel,” she chided to the front seat. “How much longer until we reach the docks? It’s getting stuffy back here.”

“We shall arrive momentarily, Miss Sif,” said Fandrel, speaking over his shoulder. Fandrel was the personal valet employed by Thor’s parents, Odin and Frigga Borson, and Sif had taken a liking to using him as her own special lackey. But for what reason that was, Thor wasn’t entirely sure. Although, Sif was always a flirtatious young lady, and though slight, Fandrel was a handsome man (though not as handsome as Thor, thank you very much.) So likely it was just habit.

“I just cannot wait to be settled aboard, Thor,” Sif said to him, hooking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I cannot wait to finally get off this filthy heap. I still think we were in England about three weeks too long.”

“Sif, you know that business takes time,” replied Thor. “Father needed to see the factories that would be receiving our generators. And you’ll remember, no power for workers means no money for honeymoons.” Thor offered a smirk to his fiancé, and Sif grinned smugly. In this relationship, there was no business, only the results.

Suddenly the streets before them opened up into a crowd of people. The roar of voices was a mere hum from the inside of the car, and up front, Fandrel was all wide eyes and dropped jaw. The crowd parted, and in the gaping space they left, the car came to an abrupt, jerky stop.

Sif exited first, daintily slipping out of the door at the hand of Fandrel without so much as wrinkling her seersucker tailored dress or jostling the hat perched on her head. Thor climbed out behind her, and he instantly offered his arm to Sif. He then turned his head up to the massive wonder towering over the docks.

Almost nine-hundred feet long. A hundred and seventy-five feet tall from keel to funnel, encompassing nine decks. Thousands of tons of solid steel and the best in modern innovation. Thor had to admit it; the rumors were certainly true. The _R.M.S Titanic_ lived up to its name in grandeur, and Thor had to acknowledge the sense that history was being made that day.

Thor rested his hand on the one Sif had wrapped around his bicep, and he led her out of the way of the other vehicles and horse-drawn carriages encroaching on them. Sif had her chin turned up toward _Titanic’s_ upper decks, already inspecting the gargantuan ship with her keen hazel eye.

“Well, it certainly looks unsinkable,” she commented rather shrewdly. “What do you think, darling?”

“If they say the ship’s unsinkable, then she is,” said Thor. He patted his fiancé’s hand tenderly. “Not to worry my dear, we have no more to fear than a few sour drinks.”

“Oh, don’t even start with that. I’m expecting a glass of champagne as soon as we’re settled into our rooms.”

A small luggage truck pulled up behind them, and Fandrel turned to begin unloading the impressive number of bags and trunks the wealthy couple had brought with them from America. Between the two of them, Thor and Sif travelled with enough clothing to last them two months, though that was only a fraction of the full wardrobe they kept at their estate just outside of New York City. Was it necessary? No, not really, at least not according to the hundreds of people boarding the ship with one suitcase per body. But was it sinful? Not to Sif, nor anyone whom they have acquainted in their travels, and therefore as a result, not to Thor.

“Good day to you, sir,” a gentleman exclaimed as he approached. He was all done up in proper uniform; an employee of the shipping line obviously. “The White Star line welcomes you to Southampton. What is the name?”

“Thor Odinson, and this is –,”

“His fiancé,” Sif interrupted. Her eyebrows perked up, and she blinked wistfully as she smiled a smug little smile. “Sif Ullerdotter. Perhaps you have heard of my father’s mining business in Chicago.”

“Yes, yes dear, settle down,” said Thor before turning back to the smaller man. “I assume you are here to offer your services. My fiancé and I hold first class tickets, and our valet can hardly move all this himself.”

“Yes, of course sir,” said the White Star man. “My men would be glad to assist you in checking your baggage at the terminal.”

“They take it directly to our staterooms and make sure it gets there in one piece, and they shall be rewarded.” Thor patted at his trouser pocket, and the deck steward suddenly perked up significantly. “Right away, Mister Odinson!” he yipped, and he hollered over the crowds to his waiting associates. They quickly swarmed the luggage truck.

Thor turned back toward the ship. Everywhere, people were ripe with anticipation over the sight, over what it would bring, whatever that might be. But there he stood; he knew exactly what to expect, and what he was going to in New York. But he couldn’t really share in the exhilaration. He thought to himself briefly about what it was like to live like these people. At least they had the fun of not knowing what was coming to them.

**_*Screeeeech*_ **

Thor suddenly whirled around at the loud noise, tugging Sif along with him. Another automobile had come to a very abrupt halt, but that wasn’t what first caught their attention. A young man was crouched down in the middle of the road. He had a thin face and lanky black hair, and his clothes were faded and worn out. As he scrambled across the ground, wide-eyed and gasping for breath, he grabbed various items of clothing and insignificant knick-knacks, and he shoved them back into the sack he carried in his hand. By all appearances, it seemed he had just missed being run over.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

Thor turned his head with a furrowed brow as his father got out of the back of the stalled vehicle. His hat covering the tied straps of his eye patch, Odin Borson marched right up to the front bumper, grasping a gold-handled walking cane and shouting at the agitated man on his knees.

“What do you think you are doing? How dare you get in our way? There are women in this car, for Christ’s sake!”

“I’m so sorry!” the young man pleaded. “I swear, I didn’t see it coming at me.”

“That gives you no right to run out into the road like a mad band of cattle! What are you, some kind of lunatic?”

“But sir –,”

Odin cut him off with a swipe of his hand, waving at him as though to swat him away. “Street rats, always causing trouble. You’re no better than the scum in New York.”

“Father,” Thor suddenly spoke up, having grown tired of the conflict, enough so to interrupt one of Odin’s famous scoldings. “I will handle this, if you don’t mind. You should go check on Mother and Ingrid. They must be shaken up after that.” Odin thought about that for a brief moment, as though to question his son’s logic. But a stupid man Thor was not; Odin had made sure of that many years ago. And in those many years, the boy had learned a thing or two on how to handle inferiors. He turned, gesturing his permission with the tip of his cane and a flippant wave.

“Oh Thor, don’t,” Sif whined. “We don’t have time for this.” She tried to tug him back toward the boarding steps, but Thor was adamant. It would only take a moment. Leaving his lady to huff and sulk to Fandrel, he stepped forward, and he knelt down by the front of his father’s car.

“Are you alright there?” he asked. The other, slightly younger man turned his head to Thor, and he flashed a pair of piercing green eyes that briefly stunned him. Thor actually felt a shiver go up his spine; if he didn’t know any better, he would say that stare was the real cause of the near collision. But that was the only strong thing about this guy. He was huddled in the way that he held himself, and though his features were harsh and his body was clearly the result of a workman’s life, he seemed intimidated to be approached. Considering how unusually large a man Thor was, he supposed there was some merit in that.

“I’m fine,” the nervous street rat quickly replied. He spoke in a light voice, his accent trimmed with the elegance of the English. Thor’s brow perked up; there was always something so fascinating about the way these people talked, but perhaps that was the inborn trait of an American boy. He listened clearly as the young man said, “I’m sorry, I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

“No, no, that’s fine. Take your time.”

“No, I won’t. I don’t have much time as it is. I’ve only just arrived, and I still need to pass through the inspection queue before the hour is up. I can’t be late to board, I can’t afford it.”

“Oh, then let me help you,” Thor nodded, understanding that this man was a fellow passenger, and he went to grab a newly bound book off the ground. But the other man just snapped at him, “I don’t need any help!” And he ripped an old pair of trousers out from under Thor’s finely polished shoe. Thor only took a second to regain his footing before the silence grew to be too annoying, and he made a small effort to break it.

“So, you must be travelling by third class,” he said. “I’ve heard good things about the accommodations on this ship. The best in the world, they say.”

“Indeed,” the dark-haired man mused, and he forced the last of his belongings into his bag. He went to stand. “Tell your people that I’m sorry that I disrupted their day.” And before Thor could get another word out, he was off, rushing through the crowds toward the third class passenger check-in points. Thor watched him go as he too rose to his full height, but as he stepped to the side to address his family, he suddenly realized that his left hand was still grasping the road-dusted book. Like a bolt of lightning, he dashed off to catch up to that third class lad.

“Hey you!” he shouted out. About twenty different bystanders jerked their heads in response, but Thor ignored them, instead looking toward his intended target, whose attention he had also successfully attracted. He held the book out with a hearty voice. “I think this is yours.”

The English boy took one look at the thin tome in the other, significantly better groomed man’s hand, and his green eyes were blown wide. He stepped out of line and took it quickly. “Yes, yes it is.” He dropped his bag open to slip it back in with the rest of his things, but as he did so, he glanced up at Thor from the side. He looked him up and down, taking in his tailored suit, his shiny shoes, and his black leather gloves, and he pressed his thin lips together tersely. “So, is this how you treat all low class folk, or am I just special?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first guy I’ve had to scold on my father’s behalf,” Thor admitted, rather contritely as he thought back on all those people Odin had stripped to the bone, and he had sat back and allowed it. “I’ve lectured workers in our factories, and the odd child on the street. But at least this one is for some good reason. It was pretty stupid of you to be running around a dock like that. You were lucky that you didn’t get hit by my parents’ vehicle.”

“I doubt it would have been as much of an inconvenience to me as to you,” said the younger man, and Thor frowned slightly. “Now, I really have to go. Thank you for returning my journal.”

“Happy to help,” said Thor, smirking with his hands slipping into his pockets. “By the way, I’m Thor Odinson. What’s your name?”

“Loki…and as I already said, I don’t need anyone’s help.” And that was it. The man – Loki – stepped back from Thor, and he slinked off toward the back of the queue, not having the nerve to fight for his old spot.

Thor also turned and started heading back to his party with a slight sense of regret. He thought about how he and Sif never had to wait in lines, and they certainly weren’t going to that day. It was easy to forget how carefree his daily life really was, until he saw how much harder those same tasks could be for others. At least he would have felt better if that poor Loki guy had stayed put long enough for him to slip a twenty into his hand. Thor hated pity. He hated how it felt to feel it, and he hated how it felt to receive it. But pity was something easily remedied, and Thor never passed on such chances.

He noticed how Sif was shaking her head as he came back to her, and she said, “I hope you didn’t let him touch you. You know how the lower classes are infested with lice, the filthy vermin.”

“Oh don’t be silly, Sif,” Thor half-chuckled. He turned to the back seat of his family’s second vehicle, where Odin was helping his wife out into the midday light. Like her husband, her son, and her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Frigga Borson was the picture of class and high society, outfitted in blue velvets and furs, and her thick blonde hair done up elegantly under her feathered hat. As soon as she laid her fair eyes on Thor, she smiled warmly.

“Thank you, Thor, for taking care of that little problem,” she said calmly, paying no further mind to her bumpy arrival. “Lord knows the last thing we needed was your father having a conniption before we’ve even boarded.” She affectionately patted Thor on the cheek, but as she did so, she quietly scoffed. “Oh Thor, I told you to shave last night before you went to bed. You have such a handsome face, why must you hide it with this stubble?”

“Sorry Mother,” Thor replied. He knew she meant well, but shaving was something that took too much effort, and he preferred to stray from the wealthy herd and keep a beard most of the time. Besides, Odin sported a beard (a much fuller one at that), and Thor was pretty sure that his mother appreciated that.

Spurred on by the thought, Thor looked up at Odin. The old gentleman had calmed visibly, and he stared up at _Titanic_ with a peaceful smile. “Impressive,” he mused, grasping his walking cane. “Very impressive.” Thor mirrored Odin’s posture, likely not even realizing that he was doing it, and he nodded his agreement. Frigga laughed to herself; given how they were behind a highly successful electrical company, the largest income stemming from its production of industrial generators, it was easy to dazzle her boys with technology.

“Yes my dears,” she said. “It is a very nice ship, but we can’t just stare at it all day. Ingrid, have you got my hats?”

“Right here, ma’am,” replied Ingrid, who was Frigga’s personal maid-servant. She was currently laden with boxes of various odd sizes that she somehow managed to balance on her forearms. And right behind her, Fandrel was poised to lunge in and help should she lose her grip.

“Well, then we mustn’t delay a minute longer,” said Odin as he looked down at the gold pocket watch hanging at his waist. “Come along, Frigga my dear. Thor, make sure the baggage is taken care of.” And with that, the white-haired gentleman clacked the tip of his cane on the ground, and he led his lovely wife off toward the first class gangway entrance.

Thor sighed quietly to himself; it wasn’t really worth telling his father that he had already taken care of the luggage, as Odin likely would have passed the chore onto him anyway. But all Thor had to do to avoid any further annoyance was to look up at his hired hands grabbing bags and parcels out of the boot of their chartered car. His father’s will done, Thor nodded to himself, and he offered his arm out to Sif. The two of them started off after Odin and Frigga, Sif tugging ahead on Thor’s arm ever so slightly.

As he and his fiancé ascended that somewhat precarious metal incline, Thor couldn’t help but to look around at his surroundings, allowing all the noise and the voices to melt into the background of his mind. He looked out on the floods of people swarming the docks for a glimpse of the great _Titanic_ , the dozens of crew and seamen hustling around and breaking their backs in search of a decent living. Then he would look back at his beautiful fiancé smiling at him as they marched up toward a smiling steward, waiting to greet them and the rest of the elite, and Thor would feel that inner pause creeping in on him.

He had everything going for him. He was richer than God, as Odin once so delicately put it. And to his credit, it was pretty true. After three generations of tough industry and continuous innovation, it was certain that Thor and Sif’s eventual grandchildren would never see a day where they would struggle. Also, when it came to other people, that money really did talk. As big and intimidating as he was, Thor hardly had to fight in life. He was not a politician, yet he still had status. He had all the finest things society had to offer, the crown jewel being the impossibly beautiful woman on his arm, his future wife. And in a little less than a month, the two of them would be bonded together in the grandest wedding New York had ever seen.

He was content with his life, happy even. But why did he have to feel so empty about it? What good was there in privilege if you did nothing for it?

“Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Borson,” he heard an officer of the ship say, greeting his parents ahead of him and Sif. “It is my pleasure to welcome you and your family to _Titanic_. Allow us to direct you to your staterooms.”

 

* * *

 

From the clustered mass of the third class queue, Loki watched Thor. He watched him relish in his wealth and status, ignoring those working for him as they fell over themselves and those expensive bags for a tip. And Loki followed him all the way up until he disappeared onto the ship through a door on a high deck with his pale, shapely female companion.

Loki hated people like them. Thor Odinson was everything that he wasn’t. He had encountered dozens of Thor Odinsons in his life (not to mention their stuffy, over-nourished partners, burdened by a nine foot pole shoved up their arses), and every single one of them loved to remind him to get back under their shoe. It was men like Thor who made Loki’s life not worth living, who were inadvertently driving him out of Britain.

But he had done something that the others hadn’t. He offered to help. He offered to help him without any visible sign of obligation. Sure, it was just picking up his clothes off the ground, but it was more than Loki had seen in a long while. And when he should probably be feeling flattered, maybe even grateful, all Loki was left with was confusion. It might not be much of an improvement, an American millionaire picking up his dirty journal from under his multi-millionaire father’s car. But it was something. It was a small something, but enough to lift Loki’s head up a little.

His sleek hair was checked for lice, he was given a clean bill of inspection by the official, and his ticket was checked. Slinging his sack over his shoulder, Loki looked up the _Titanic’s_ massive steel hull with a tense sigh, and he stepped aboard the world’s finest ocean liner.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Is anyone still there, because I sure hope so! I'm horridly embarrassed that I've neglected this story for so long, but real life just had to go and get in the way, not to mention other stories that needed updates or haven't even been published yet. I hope there's someone out there still hanging in there.
> 
> This chapter has been such a nuisance because I HATE beginnings and introductions. I really hope it's not too terrible, or worse, boring.

Loki did not originally plan to venture up to the promenade deck so soon, not really wanting to bid goodbye to England in that garish way the high seas had coerced people into believing was mandatory. But he was also not prepared for the sheer number of people who had crammed into the narrow corridors below decks. It was true that the majority of the ship’s passengers were with Loki in third class, but he never really comprehended just how many one ship could house in that relatively small space. Though he had known some tight places in his life, Loki had his limits, and at this time, the easiest thing to do was to follow the crowd.

As he made his way up the seemingly endless number of stairwells that led up to _Titanic’s_ higher decks, Loki took a moment to take in his surroundings. While he had yet to see any lodgings, the halls certainly were tidier than could be expected. The walls were still the pristine white with freshly laid paint, with some nicely detailed woodwork that was almost unnoticeable to those who did not have a very keen eye. And as he got higher, he began to see fine paintings hanging, and rich carpeting beneath his feet. But that didn’t draw his attention nearly as much as his fellow passengers. In just the few decks meant for the lower class, Loki saw people who came from places that encompassed half of Europe, though the voices that rose up above the others were that of the Irish, the Swedes, and his own British countrymen. Like Loki, they didn’t look to have very much to their names, and they certainly were poor in most ways. But unlike Loki, these people carried themselves with higher spirits, and it was all because they knew where they were and where they were going. Loki just sneered at that. It wasn’t exactly the Promised Land that _Titanic_ was sailing to.

He managed to find an open space at the ship’s stern, which wasn’t too difficult given how people swarmed the railings, and he sat himself down on a lonely bench. And it was there where he stayed, even as the ship’s massive steam whistle blew and the stacks began to spew the black smoke of burning coal.

As the crowds cheered below, and those aboard cried out their last goodbyes to their family and friends, Loki could only sit and wait as the ship was towed out. In spite of himself, he watched quietly as Southampton drifted away until it was finally out of sight. He was well and truly free now.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until they were deep into the English Channel that Loki decided that it was a good time to go and actually find his cabin. After all, he couldn’t carry his things with him for the entire week it took to reach New York. So he set off again for the lower decks. This time, he noticed, there was more crew presence about, directing people towards wayward locations, but also keeping them away from where they were not permitted, which for the third class was quite a lot of places. In this case, Loki figured that safety was in obscurity, and he took care to avoid trouble with the crew. He avoided eye contact, and he listened for the frustrated instruction instructions others were receiving.

Of course, it wasn’t as though the stewards would have been a tremendous help, Loki thought irritably to himself. Below D Deck, the halls were nearly impossible to navigate with any sense of ease. The end of every corridor opened up into three new routes, turning the ship into a maze of identical, vaguely labeled doors. For a long while, Loki unwillingly explored the length of E Deck. He strolled the down the wider central passages, keeping his eyes downward while still managing to avoid the paths of his fellow passengers. But then he would eventually be forced to turn down another narrow corridor and plunge into the human congestion in search of the right cabin. Loki gritted his teeth together behind his lips; it was just like cattle being herded into a very tight pen. At least he wasn’t the only one, judging by the occasional phantom groan in the air around him.

Finally, after stumbling down one more set of stairs and around a few more confusing corners, Loki found the right door on the F Deck bow. The room was at the end of a short corridor, with the door running perpendicular to what could only have been the port side of the ship. Four other doors lined either side of the hall, and a solitary light fixture sat mounted some two feet above the wooden handrails. Other passengers were hovering around all those doors, moving bags around and making themselves at home inside their cramped quarters. Loki gently pushed his way passed a couple of other men’s wives, and he reached for the handle of his cabin door, and with a quick breath in, he pushed the door open.

Two other men were already occupying the space, and they both looked up at Loki as one would an intruder. When he purchased his ticket, Loki was aware that he would have to share a cabin, likely with a small group of people. But what he could never know was the nature of these arrangements, what sort of nameless folk he would be made to bunk with every night. Even so, Loki had at least hoped for a warmer welcome than the surly glares he was facing now.

“Well, there goes the hope of a French prostitute,” said one of the men, who was sitting on the lower half of a bunk bed. He was middle-aged and visibly worn down, with slight wrinkles splintering off the edges of his small eyes and his thin hair combed over in an attempt at hiding his over-large forehead. Yet oddly, his pointed nose and chin gave him some sort of authoritarian air, definitely not befitting his simple workman’s clothes. “That’s ten bucks to you, Clint.”

His companion stared from his place at the corner sink, wiping his rough face with a wet cloth like he hadn’t done it in weeks. Looking over a burly shoulder, he scowled at Loki with piercing blue eyes. “Hmm…by the looks of this guy, we might as well have gotten a girl.”

“I beg your pardon,” Loki snapped. Weak though it was, he knew an insult when he heard one, and he certainly wasn’t going to stand for it from a couple of complete strangers. “You’ve got some nerve, ribbing a man you’ve barely met.”

“Yeah, and you clearly haven’t learned not to talk back to strangers.” The other young man tossed the wet rag down, and he turned to fully face Loki. He stood about a foot shorter than Loki, though what he lacked in stature, he made up for in the width of his shoulders. “You know, that gets you into trouble in my neck of the woods.”

“Oh, you mean Iowa?” the third man spoke up with some air of sarcasm. “Knock it off, this guy’s hardly a threat.” He then stood up and turned to Loki. “I apologize for my friend here. He’s not too good with greetings.”

“Evidently,” said Loki. “Since when does a man expect a threat from a lowly cabin-mate?”

“Since the day he learns the world is a raving bitch.” He held out his hand to Loki. “Phil Coulson, nice to meet you.”

“Loki,” the black-haired lad replied. As he already felt uneasy with his new lodgings, Loki still withheld his full name, until such time he was able to trust. Coulson nodded with a smirk, and Loki then angled his eyes toward the corner. “And you are?”

“Clint Barton, and you can wipe that sneer off your face. You might be one of the brits, but you’re no grander than we are.”

Loki had heard talk of working class Americans. He had certainly known his share of brash characters among his own countrymen, but the Americans, it was said, were their own special breed. Their revolution had quenched all their qualms with fire, and even over a hundred and thirty years later, it was still festering in their souls. They placed themselves on a very high pedestal, seeking to look down on their foreign onlookers, whether or not they had the right. And the English in particular were on the receiving end of their prickliest manners. But Loki was no waif, and would be determined not to be bullied by a boorish yank.

Clint abruptly gave a gruff sigh, and he crossed the floor of the cabin with a slow, jerky gate. “I’m going for a smoke,” he said to Phil as he passed in front of Loki, ignoring him. “Make sure no one touches my stuff.” Phil just chuckled at the back of his throat, muttering, “See you at dinner then.” With that, Clint left the room, leaving the door hanging on its hinges and disappearing into the crowd of noises.

Loki stared in that direction for only about a minute before turning back to the other man with a subtle irk in his brow. “Your friend…he’s a bit of an arse, isn’t he?”

Phil sighed. “He’s always been like that, at least as long as I’ve known him, and that’s going on four years. You get used to it after a while.”

“He’s mistrustful too. I saw the way he looked at me as he left.”

“It’s not just you.” Phil shook his head jerkily as he glanced down at the worn leather bags that sat in the corner. “The only possessions Clint has are the ones he can carry on his back, so he’s pretty protective of ‘em.”

“Yes…” Loki muttered as he looked down at his own meager sack. “I know the feeling.” Phil seemed to understand, and he nodded his head gently. “Believe me, Clint really is a decent guy. You just got to wear him down a bit first.”

As if he would, Loki mused to himself.

The two bunks on the opposing wall were already taken up by some of Phil and Clint’s belongings, so Loki instinctively turned to the empty bed to his right. He dropped his bag to the floor before going to make up the bed, but he stopped when he saw the bare pillow and rough wool blanket on the mattress. “Phil, where are the sheets?” he asked. “Are they in that cupboard there?” He pointed to a small compartment against the wall, but when he opened up the double doors, all he found were a set of four bulkily padded life-vests.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” said Phil with a wrinkled brow. “You need to bring your own sheets. I mean, it’s a nice ship, but it’s still the bare necessities down here. This isn’t First Class. You must not travel much.”

“Not really,” Loki mumbled. He was feeling a bothersome sinking in his stomach that he had spent much of his adult life sleeping on borrowed sheets, and of all his things, he couldn’t afford to keep them. “You wouldn’t have an extra set, would you?”

“Nah, just mine and Clint’s.” Phil shook his head in that familiar way that just told Loki what he was about to follow up with. “I’m sorry, buddy. I wish I could help you.”

“You boys need sheets?”

A voice suddenly came from the doorway. Loki and Phil both looked in that direction and were met with the sight of a redheaded woman with a pointed face and piercing blue eyes. Dressed in a plain blue skirt and blouse, she had a tartan wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders, held in place by the arms crossed over her chest.

“I beg your pardon?”  Loki quipped. “Why would you want to know?” He was obviously suspicious of a very beautiful, but still strange woman appearing practically out of thin air, and he was one to make short work of his curiosities.

“Forget about that. I want to know how long you’ve been standing there spying on us.” Phil shook his hand to the tune of the perplexed tone in his voice. The woman smirked and shook her head, her short curls bouncing across her face. “You American men just don’t know how to move quietly. Everyone always knows where you are going,” she said. Her accent, when she spoke, was definitely rooted somewhere in Russia, but the severity of it had faded a lot, likely from years of migration. “But you, English. If you need a set of sheets, I have some you can use.”

Loki was used to getting handouts; after all, it was how he survived that first year out of the workhouse. But all of those had come from privileged folk. For it to be coming from someone on the same level as him (He could only assume they were if she was there in Third Class), it felt so different, and it felt wrong. But it was different and wrong enough for him to nod his head in thanks. Phil simply looked the other way.

The Russian woman stepped back out into the narrow hall, and she disappeared into a room across the way, her own cabin. When she returned a few minutes later, she carried in her hands a folded set of age-stained cloth. Keeping them between her palms, she held them out to Loki, who accepted them carefully, though not without another nod of gratitude.

“I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get any use out of those again,” she told him. “I actually thought about selling them in London. Good thing I didn’t, huh?”

“I suppose,” said Loki. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.”

“No, not at all. I don’t need them. In fact, you can keep them. You look like you could use a little help there.”

Loki smirked. “I think we all need a little aid here and there, otherwise we would be with the folks up on A Deck. But anyhow, thank you. I do appreciate this, Miss…”

“Romanov,” the woman supplied. “Natasha Romanov. A pleasure to meet you, boys. I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Loki,” he answered. “And this is –,”

“Phil Coulson,” the aforementioned hurried as he spoke. He pushed his shoulders back to broaden his chest, probably in an attempt to make himself more enticing to a lady. “I do hope we can all make better acquaintance on this voyage, Miss Romanov.”

“It’s Natasha, and don’t even think about it. My sisters and I aren’t on this ship to play around.” That apparently was all she had to say on that matter, and Natasha bid them a good day. She returned to her own tiny room, where three other buxom women were waiting for her.

“Sisters, eh?” Phil mused half to himself. “Can I believe my luck? If they all look like that, I might not be able to walk by the time we get to New York.”

“You assume too much,” said Loki. He took the worn gifted sheets, and he started to tug them over the corners of his thin mattress. “Even a beautiful woman like that wouldn’t sway so easily to your attempts at American charm. If anything, she’s on this ship for one reason, and it’s the same as most of us down here, to find work in America.”

“That’s true,” said Phil. “But I’ll bet that she also knows that there’s more to America than work.”

“Well, that’s all I’m looking for. Frankly, it was all I was looking for in Britain. I have no interest in wasting my time with carnal pleasures.”

Phil shook his head with a crooked smirk. “You haven’t really gotten out that much, have you? Jeez, good thing Clint wasn’t here to see you say that, otherwise this would be a really long trip.”

Of course, that was the last thing that Loki wanted to hear at the moment. He already knew that this voyage would be a long one; in his mind, it shouldn’t have mattered. But it would only be made worse when it was confirmed, in ways far louder than words, by the grumpiest American alive, and a man who was easily distracted by a gaggle of girls.

 

* * *

 

If Thor came to one conclusion that afternoon, it was that _Titanic_ lived up to not only her name, but her reputation. He had been on a number of trans-Atlantic voyages in his life, and had seen some impressive ships. But he had to admit, he hadn’t seen a steamer so fine as this.

It began with their accommodations on B Deck. As he had done one the land, Odin had spared no expenses when it came to his family’s lodgings at sea. Their cabin spanned across three rooms; there was a grand sitting room, which was adorned in smooth red woods and gold filigrees at every corner and border. The sitting area also included the door to their private promenade deck, one of only a small few on _Titanic_. This space already conjured up images of breakfasts away from other folks aboard, an idea which Thor was quite fond of. There was the master bedroom and bath, both fit for a king, and then there was Thor’s room, which sat at the end of their little block of deck space.

“I really wouldn’t have decorated like this,” Sif commented as she sat at the little tea table in the corner of the cabin, beside the large porthole. “I mean, it looked nice in the other room, especially with that fireplace. But definitely not in a bedroom! You’re parents’ cabin is much nicer with that mint wallpapering. Yes, much cleaner. This is just too much. How do they expect you to sleep in here? At least at home, the only reds you keep are those garish bedsheets.”

Thor only shook his head as he stood by his four-poster bed, instructing Fandrel and his mother’s maid Ingrid how to properly unpack his things. Sif had such a peculiar sensibility; she was able to be both impressed and deterred by the same sight, sometimes in the exact same instant. But in this case, it didn’t matter because she wouldn’t be staying long. Sif had her own cabin across the hall; as they were not yet married, it was only appropriate. And her space, Thor mused to himself, so happened to look like something out of the halls of Versailles, and perhaps held more space than needed for one woman. But at least she liked that. After their trip on the Lusitania the month before, Thor did not want one more word about there not being enough closet space. As for Thor himself, this room would do nicely. It was spacious enough for his large size, the bed was comfortable and soft, and despite his fiancé’s misgivings, he didn’t mind the warm color palette in the décor. In fact, he quite liked it. There was a reason for those red sheets after all, and Thor smirked to himself at the thought.

However he couldn’t remain in that room for the next six days. Once they were sufficiently unpacked and settled in, the family left their trusted hired help to tend to their expensive belongings, and they spent the rest of the day exploring the ship. The took a late lunch in the Palm Court Café, followed by a leisurely stroll around the boat deck, which was really more of a show for the wealthy’s couplings, with women clinging to their men’s tailored coats at every turn.

Once they tired of that little parade, Frigga and Sif left for the First Class lounge on A Deck, where they had been invited to tea by some of their temporaries. This in itself was a testament to their place on that ship, among all of those people. All around the Borsons were the elite of the day. Some were great entrepreneurs who contributed massively to American growth, and some were socialites off the pages of every newspaper. Even true nobility sailed among them in the form of a Scottish countess. Odin considered himself a god among men, but he still recognized his equals, and sometimes those richer than he. In fact, it was rumored that Odin was not even the richest man aboard _Titanic_. But in spite of that unsavory idea, Thor’s family were all eager to interact with their affluent neighbors, and to finally meet those who they had not yet met.

Of course, with their ladies taking their leave, this left Thor and Odin to be talked half to death by another affable steward, who gladly referred them to the first class library and gymnasium, as well as their squash courts, Turkish baths, and swimming pool below decks. And when all of it was through, back up to the lounge they went, where they were treated to the finest whiskey the ship had to offer.

All of it was wonderful! And yet to Thor, it was oddly normal. He had been to many places that offered him and his family a great amount of special treatment, so he had seen all of this before in one form of another. He already knew many of the famous faces around them. How peculiar his life was to be born into all of this.

 

* * *

 

As night fell over the boat deck, the horizon was illuminated by the lights of Cherbourg, France. And far off the coast of the port city, Titanic came to her next complete stop. It was dinner hour for most passengers, but the ship was as busy as ever with even more passengers coming aboard. The reception area on A Deck was flooded with people, stewards, deckhands, and personal helpers of the first class folk, all weighed down with bags upon bags. Thor and his father watched them from the adjacent corridor, looking dapperly intimidating in their formal dinner attire.

“Oh yes, the holiday hounds,” Odin said with a light sarcastic sneer. “Must be nice to partake in frivolous vacations at this time of year. It’s any wonder how civilization still manages to function when business needs to be done.”

“That’s mostly for the little people are for, Father,” said Thor, staring across at the French maids walking across toward the Grand Staircase. “And besides, wasn’t it you who suggested that surprise trip to Venice last summer?”

“Ah Thor, we all need to get away from the factories from time to time. You’ll realize that quickly when you’re head of _Borson Electrics_. But unlike others, we do not overdo it.” Odin turned his one eye over the small crowd, inspecting faces as he went along from one person to the next. “So that’s Guggenheim’s French mistress, eh? I wonder what business he has bringing her along. Won’t that be a conversation back in New York?”

“No more than Astor’s young wife, I’d say,” Thor quipped in response. It was a bit odd that he and his father were openly gossiping about people who they would momentarily be dining with, but to Thor, Odin’s wealthy contemporaries sometimes simply did things that were so outrageous that it was almost obligatory to talk about it, and more than that, it was too easy. He could say that he was indulging the scandalmongers of his family, which certainly expanded beyond Odin and Sif. But Thor had to admit his own weakness for cheeky whispers. After all, what was life if a man couldn’t take a small delight in others’ misfortune?

Suddenly, a loud voice broke out of the masses, almost smacking the air around them, which grabbed Thor’s attention like a stone to the head. “Hey, hey!” it snapped. “Watch what you’re doing, will you? Those trunks cost more than your house!”

Thor had to search around for the source of those shouts, but he quickly got his answer when a man stepped out into an open pocket of floor space. He was a tad shorter than most, but he held himself like he would tower over Thor’s incredible height, with squared shoulders and puffed-up chest. He also had one of the most meticulously trimmed beards Thor had ever seen. On his right arm, a woman in flashy white clothes and strawberry-blonde hair stood with her eyes rolling dramatically at the sight of the stewards attempting to get ahold of their luggage, which was already being handled rather efficiently by their two personal valets.

“Sir, I must remind you that heavy lifting is not in my job description,” said the shorter of the two hired men, a thin man with a thin face and a terrifically British air about him. “And these boys are attempting to earn their pocket money.”

“Well Jarvis, you’re not helping them by hanging onto the bags,” said their boss. “I’ve been standing up all day, and I need some scotch. Keep it up, fellas, because I’m not waiting for you.” He almost tapped his polished heels as he carried on his way toward the lifts.

“Oh no, so it was true,” Odin lamented quietly, but still overly dramatic in tonal quality. “What is the greater mistake, Thor? Listening to Fandral’s hearsay, or doubting it afterwards?”

“I don’t get it,” said Thor. “Who is that?”

“That, my son, is the most annoying prat to ever invade New York. The man who ruined the gentleman’s club, dirtied up the Hamptons, and stole the Hudson location for our new corporate headquarters.”

“That’s Tony Stark?” Thor mused with a twisted quirk in his brow. For months, he had listened to Odin ranting to anyone who haphazardly spared half a second’s time, all about the new, younger head of Stark Industries, which was currently enjoying the burgeoning business in automobile advancement. But despite hearing that barking voice and seeing the obvious arrogance dripping off his persona, Thor still had a hard time relating this Tony Stark to the crude, loud-mouthed, whiskey-swilling troll his father had described. And because of this, the only response Thor had to offer was, “He’s shorter than I would have imagined.”

“Oh, get ahold of yourself, Thor,” sneered Odin. “You might still be young enough to consider such nonsense fun, but you haven’t had to work with the Starks. Dealing with Tony Stark might as well consist of slamming your own head against a wall. The man has no idea how to handle his business.”

“Well, if your father died in a freak accident, I doubt you would be ready to run a massive company like the one Howard Stark built.”

Odin sighed, shaking his head to himself. “Howard Stark was a brilliant mind – God rest his soul – but he poorly prepared his heir to take on his work. Stark Industries is run by workhouse cronies with Tony as their glorified figurehead. They’re more like his nannies, if you ask me.”

“Wait a minute, Father,” Thor abruptly spoke up. “If I remember correctly, the last time we had any business dealings with Stark Industries, you had cousin Balder head that meeting. When have you ever actually spoken to Mister Stark?”

“I had the misfortune of talking politics with him at a campaign gala for the mayor,” said Odin. “If the men of Congress had heard the ideas he was touting, America would be doomed. He also brought that little tart with him. Apparently, she used to be Stark’s personal typesetter. Isn’t that just dandy? Totes around middle-class, gold-digging trash, and he doesn’t even have the decency to marry her! It’s an embarrassment to high society, Thor.”

By this point however, Thor was only listening through one ear, as was his tendency when Odin got up on his soapbox in this way. It was unfair, to be honest, how quick Odin was to talk down on others. Thor knew his contemporaries were not the most savory bits mankind had to offer, but after spending his teenage years learning all manners of business, at his father’s side, he knew that he and his family were not perfect either. He certainly wasn’t; he himself could get rowdy at times, and his appetite could match that of a full-grown bull. But that was just the way he was, just as Odin was the way he was. Odin always looked down on everyone like a god, a title that would surprise absolutely no one if Odin decided to paint it in gold leaf on his office door.

 

* * *

 

Down in the depths of the ship, on F Deck, the third class dining saloon was packed with people, and Loki was lucky enough to have found a seat with the two directly to his left remaining empty. He knew that it had been a better idea to wait for dinner; with so many people to feed down there, third class had to eat in two seatings, and those families with young children obviously took precedence. The chance at some limited solitude was simply an added benefit. And frankly, Loki was much more concerned with the quality of the food they were being served. Needless to say, when they were presented with hot meat pies and fresh bread and butter, Loki dug in heartily, his hunger properly satisfied for the first time in weeks.

He had been so deeply entranced in his own thinkings that he almost didn’t hear the footsteps approaching him. He looked up just in time to see the Russian woman from before, the one called Natasha, sitting down across the table from him, setting down her own half-finished plate of food in front of her. She settled herself in nicely, a smirk on her lips as she took up her polished fork.

“It feels good to have a full stomach, doesn’t it?” she said. Loki glanced up from his meal, almost surprised by this attempt at conversation. Natasha just quirked her lips, and she took up her napkin, reaching across the narrow width of the table to wipe a stray smear of butter from the corner of Loki’s mouth. Loki blushed, making Natasha smile. “When was the last time you had a proper meal. Myshka?”

“I didn’t expect the food to be this palatable,” Loki admitted. “I half-expected to eat like the rats down here.”

“Yes, I agree. I suppose _Titanic’s_ shipmasters didn’t want anyone to go hungry. It wouldn’t bode well for their reputation.”

Loki turned his attention back to his food, but he couldn’t stay quiet for long, and he said, “You know, you don’t need to take pity on me. I’m quite used to eating alone.”

“Well you must forgive me then,” said the young woman. “I can break a man’s jaw in a heartbeat, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel sorry for him while doing it.”

“I don’t need pity,” Loki said for the umpteenth time in what felt like an eternity. But Natasha just shook her head, the ends of her auburn hair dusting her chin. “None of us want pity, but a great deal of us need it. The moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew you had seen some rough times.”

“Did you now?” Loki quipped. “And I suppose you know how that feels.”

“Of course,” said Natasha. “Myshka, when I was growing up in Russia, I was starving in an orphanage that could only keep me for so long. Once I was old enough to take care of myself, the only options I had were to either become a prostitute or a nun. Neither of which would have suited me, I assure you. That’s why we left, my sisters and I.” She gestured over to a table in the opposite corner. Three other pale, buxom women sat there, none of whom bore any real resemblance to Natasha. Loki quickly made the connection that the term sister was used very loosely in this case.

“We were all children of mothers who couldn’t feed us,” Natasha continued, almost answering the silent question. “And of fathers who couldn’t be found. What were we but a few more tavern wenches? If we didn’t leave, we would have vanished into that frozen wasteland. But we endured.”

“How?” asked Loki.

“We learned to take pity,” replied Natasha. “Even if it meant we had to charm it out of a few. I’ll tell you, no matter where we went, there were always men and innkeepers more than happy to spare a coin.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to be a prostitute.”

At that, Natasha showed a sliver of offense by arching her own thin brow. “Did I say they paid us to be fucked? No, all we did was accept small charitable donations from a few good souls…though I must admit, a few might have been misinterpreted as a love affair. I don’t know, I can’t speak for my sisters.”

Loki was obviously a bit skeptical of that. As disinterested in romantic nature as he was, even he had to admit it. Natasha was not an ugly broad by any definition. She could walk into any pub in Europe and garner everyone’s attention. Actually, she could have all her hair hacked off and sprout a festering wart, and she would still have men chasing her. How could she not end up being showered with gifts from unsuspecting, lonely saps? “Oh,” he hummed. “A beautiful woman such as yourself has never kissed the boys and left them crying?”

The woman’s blue eyes shifted slowly before she let out a sigh. “Alright,” she said. “So there may have been one or two along the way, but I never made any promises. I have better things to look forward to. Besides, there was no love lost because there wasn’t any to begin with. Love and promises; they lead to trouble. It’s trouble like that that gave you bedsheets. We had another sister with us originally, our youngest. Flighty little bird; she promised to stick with us all the way to America. But then she meets this milkman in Birmingham, is wooed with words of nice clothes and gardens, and then she’s off with barely a goodbye. The best thing she ever did was leave behind all her supplies, and only because it gave us the last bit needed to buy passage on this ship. No, I only look out for myself, love be damned.”

_‘And I could not agree more,’_ Loki mused to himself. He realized that he was feeling a bit more relaxed now, though he couldn’t tell if it was his pleasantly full stomach or the sense that he had a common ally on _Titanic_ after all.

“So what about you?” Natasha asked abruptly. “How does a pretty boy like you end up in a place like this?”

With barely a flinch, the frown returned to Loki’s face. It was his least favorite thing to talk about, his past. And the trouble with it was that it was this grand mystery wherever he ended up. Every beggar had a story, it would seem, stories that reminded the rest of humanity that they were not as unfortunate as they believed. Every person who had offered Loki their assistance, every host who took him into their home for a night, every pub master who offered him bread; they all wanted to know how Loki ended up as low as he was. But Loki was fed up with it. He didn’t want to give satisfaction to some other miserable soul, make them happy that they had two pence more than he. And frankly, he had already garnered too much sympathy from this woman. Loki appreciated the heart from Natasha in spite of her poor nomadic ways, but they were on that ship together, and down there in steerage, no man was greater than the next. Their good fortunes didn’t matter, and neither did their worst hardships. What was a lifetime of brutal work and family tragedy to a woman who earned her way by her beauty and exotic eastern accent?

“I’m just another face,” he delivered rather bluntly as he scraped some mincemeat onto his fork. “Looking to get lost in a very crowded city.”

 

* * *

 

Thor did enjoy many of the things his lifestyle had to offer, but he always had to admit that eating was his favorite. Many had compared Thor to an animal when they saw the amounts of food he could consume in one sitting, but really, a man of his size would need to eat like a racehorse in order to sustain himself. And with the fanciest cuisines being shoved in front of him three times a day, why the hell not? Their first dinner in the first class dining hall, Thor did manage to enjoy himself. At meals, the air was lighter, and everyone seemed happily interested in the affairs of others. And even if this was a complete façade, Thor was willing to go along with it. He didn’t like his parents’ friends, but he liked being with people. In his rather boring daily life of business and banquets and garden games, at least he one thing to look forward to.

But dinner always did end, and Thor soon found himself on the upper promenades. As soon as the dessert plates had been cleared, Odin gestured his son to follow him and the other men up to the smoking room, just as he would at the end of any function the family attended. Over fine cigars and warm liquor, father and son would bond with their fellow aristocrat with talk of beautiful ladies and stirring politics. This time however, Thor only tipped back half a tumbler of brandy before taking leave, his excuse being a desire to take in the fresh sea air. It was a stupid excuse really, but to him, it was far better than the truth.

Thor hated cigars! He hated their taste, and he hated the nauseating smoke. The very thought of the thick smell was enough to turn his stomach. But Odin always insisted that he partake. Ever since he came of age, Thor would end every society night sucking smoke off of _poorly chosen_ herbs, and just barely containing the desire to vomit onto some expensive rug. As much as Thor wanted to please his father, there were only so many times he could puff away at those rolled-up logs of shit before he lost his mind. Thank heavens for solitude and Odin’s relative understanding of it!

“Well, would you look at that!” a smug voice sounded through the air. Thor looked up instantly, just in time to watch Mister Tony Stark approaching his left side. Like Thor, he was dressed in tuxedo and tails, and he held a glass of liquor in his hand. Rather impressive for a man who only stepped aboard only around two hours before. “Here I thought I was the only one who would want to escape the smog.”

“To each his own,” said Thor. He tipped back a sip from his glass, pretending that he didn’t take part in the sport of insulting his new companion earlier that evening. “You would think with the money that went into this ship, there would be some better ventilation.”

“Please! I would be happy with an open window.” Stark came to a stop just beside Thor, and he plucked the black top hat from atop his salt-and-pepper head. He bent down to rest it on the deck, setting his drink down on top of that. He then proceeded to go into his pocket and fish out a pack of ordinary cigarettes, pursing one between his lips to strike a match. He turned to Thor as he took his first drag. “Want one?”

Thor thought about it for about half a minute, but then nodded as he took on of the tiny paper sticks. He hated cigar smoke, but cigarettes he could handle. Lighting up, he nodded his thanks and tried to make some small conversation. “So…you’re Tony Stark, aren’t you?”

“Yep, and you’re Thor Odinson,” replied Tony. “I knew I recognized your old man in there. Pleasure to finally meet the younger.” He turned his head to look at Thor proper, and he was suddenly struck a bit silent when he noticed the good head and a half between them. “Wow…you’re a really big man, aren’t you?”

“You’re not the first person to say that,” Thor retorted. “The way I see it, it’s a miracle I’ve bumped my head on doorframes only twice on this ship. If I wasn’t engaged, I would actually enjoy the ladies staring up at me.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” said Tony on a sigh. “My Pepper is a great girl, but she’s got my balls in an iron grasp.” Thor just barely held back the flinch that pinched his face at his smoking companion’s language. He was no saint himself, but some salty words were just not meant to be said by a man drinking brandy in an expensive tuxedo.

“I suppose that is every wife’s duty,” Thor supplied wryly. “You know Mister Stark, I don’t think I saw either of you at dinner.”

“Alright big guy, a few things,” said Tony, smirking. “First of all, it’s Tony. Only my valet calls me Mister Stark. Second, Pepper’s not my wife. She’s my girl, I love her dearly, and I go home to her at night, but I like female company too much. I’m not that type of guy to stick with one all the time – no offense to you of course. And third, I wasn’t going to leave those White Star goons with all our stuff! I had to make sure they arranged the suite to my liking. The only reason why I’m here is because Pepper told me I needed a drink. She says I get out of hand sometimes. She’s better with that stuff anyway, so I’ll gladly walk away.”

“I hear you on that,” said Thor. “My Sif is the same way. Of course, she also thinks I enjoy cigars and brandy.”

“Hmm, that’s funny coming from a man with a glass in his hand,” Tony remarked, smirking with a sharp curve in his eyebrow. But Thor had his reply without missing a beat of breath. “Well, when you spend your entire adolescence being dragged into smoking rooms and having drinks thrown at you, you learn to live with it. My father believes a public face is good for the company name.”

“And that’s really something when Borson Electrics has to walk around wearing an eyepatch.”

“My father’s accident is no concern of yours,” Thor automatically defended, though not as forcefully as he would have another day. “But we do what we must for our good fortune. If you are offered something, you must give something back. I’m sure that you’re familiar with that concept. My father has told me about all the parties he’s seen you at lately.”

“Yes, giving thanks for my father’s money by being talked to death by a bunch of old people.” Tony laughed at himself. Thor could sense some genuine amusement in the remark, though only about as much as sarcasm created. “Listen Odinson, those guys might see galas as a chance to show off to each other, but I’m only there for the food and the booze a lot of the time. And if Pepper gives me permission, I’ve enjoyed the rich men’s daughters. Given the choice, I’d rather be spending my time bettering my company and coming up with new ideas. No offense to your old man, but if my name’s going on something, I actually want to have a hand in it.”

“I have say in my business,” Thor defended. “I just spent a month in English factories, seeing that our electrical units were being installed properly. Thanks to my family, workers will be safer.”

“Did you get your hands dirty?” asked Tony. “Back when my dad was in charge, I liked to piss him off by sliding under the hoods of our test models to fix the mistakes our engineers made. We make some good-looking cars, but some of those guys are as dumb as posts.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly my place.” Thor felt himself frown as he heard his parents’ voices reverberating in the back of his skull. Odin would say they were too important for manual labor, and he shuddered at the thought of his mother seeing him in soiled clothes. But it spanned beyond that, really. He remembered when he was a boy, and his father would bring him around the offices. He would watch the workers slaving away to bright light all corners of New York City, and he wondered why all Odin did was sign the papers. Odin would simply say that men were made for many different things, and that they had been made to watch over the lesser men. It was easy to convince a child, but as Thor got older and ventured out through society, he had to wonder how such hard working men could have so little. How could his name be enough to earn as much as he had?

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Tony said calmly, but solemnly. “My father built his company from the ground up. He used to say that he worked hard so that I didn’t have to, that geniuses like us were above it. But by that time, all he was doing was pissing away his time at the end of a bottle while everyone else finished his genius – which was mostly me, by the way. My dad was a goddamned jerk to begin with, but I especially didn’t want to follow that example.”

“I wouldn’t either,” said Thor. He took a long, dragging breath on his cigarette, and he watched the smoke as he blew it out into the blue night air. “But we know our work, my family. We always have. And I’ll be ready when I take over one day. Electrics will only get better, and they need people to power it up.”

“Then you stay on top of that,” said Tony. “You and me both. At least then we can keep our dignity.”

Thor shook his head. “Everyone has dignity.”

“Ha! Nice idea, but it’s all in our minds. Men like us, they say we have all the dignity in the world, until you see us in those smoking rooms, blowing smoke out of our own asses. Those old men in there…they didn’t earn their riches or their respect. But then again, do any of us?”

Tony Stark was a very peculiar man, Thor thought to himself. He was a young billionaire who obviously enjoyed the fancies he could easily afford. But at the same time, he detested the legacy that gave it to him. He wanted his own work to reflect his own legacy, one his built for himself. And for all that society demanded how he present himself, he thought himself no grander than any other man. He wasn’t well liked in their circle, but damn it, he was clever! And he was the type that Thor could use around.

“I like the way you think, Tony.”

Tony just bent down to pick up his drink, and the two first class men clinked glasses with mirroring smirks.

 

* * *

 

By the time Thor wandered off to his suites, he had smoked his fair share of Tony’s cheap cigarettes, and his body was warm with the brandy he consumed. The pair might have continued in their _very_ well-behaved debauchery if Odin had not tugged his son away. Frigga was waiting for them, after all. And she would be very cross indeed if her husband or son showed up inebriated in any way. If one thing was plain, it was that Thor was definitely more afraid of his mother than anything else in the world.

Sif had already turned in for the night, tucked up inside her room across the hall. Thor was slightly relieved because it meant he could go right to bed himself. After a long day, he was pretty tired, and he was looking forward to sleeping that night. So once he was locked up inside his very red room, he made short work of his clothes, leaving them lying unceremoniously across the chair opposite the bed. Ingrid would sort those out in the morning anyway.

He sighed deeply at the feel of his silk pajamas, the only set of clothes he owned that he felt truly comfortable in, and when he slipped under the brand new, never once used sheets, he smiled that his bed was unburdened by his height. It was moments like this that Thor really enjoyed himself. Privilege was nice, but it was comforts that made a man truly happy. And Thor really loved the comforts he had.

He was asleep within moments of turning over onto his side.

 

* * *

 

Many decks below, deep inside the corridors of third class, Loki lay on his back, just fighting off sleep. The sheets Natasha gave him were course and cold, but they were a small improvement to the thin feather mattress, which was slightly lumpy in places. In the darkness, he could hear Clint and Phil snoring, but he still didn’t trust them enough to let himself sleep around them. Still, the weariness that had plagued him was catching up to him, and his eyes drifted closed at their own accord before Loki knew it.

It wasn’t much improvement, this. But it was something. In America, it would be easier, at least hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't anyone really knows how difficult all that was. I wanted to create great moments between characters, but I also had to take into account all the historical references involved. Any Titanic buffs who may be reading this, I apologize for any inconsistencies in here, whether by accident or artistic purpose. And on that same note, I have decided that even though it's tempting to have interactions with the actual historical people associated with Titanic, I will be keeping them to a bare minimum. The last thing I wish to do is insult the memory of the real people who were on that ship. 
> 
> Still more to come! Next chapter will bring in the last few Avengers, and paths will finally cross again.
> 
> Keep up the good reading and stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> More to come soon. In the meantime, please check out my other works, and leave your comments below.
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
